The First Old Woman was with Margaret; they were snipping up old dresses, and making them into late new ones. A new piece was to be played at the theatre that evening.
"Margaret," said Philip, "we are going to have a christening."
"O, O!" cried the First Old Woman, and set off laughing.
Philip did not condescend to notice her, nor would he so much as smile at a mock baby she fashioned in a moment out of the dress pieces, and dandled in her arms. Margaret did, and pulled it away from her.
"We are going to christen the machine, Margaret."
"Who is to be godmother?" inquired the First Old Woman briskly.
"Who!" exclaimed Philip. "Why, who but Margaret, I should like to know."
Margaret's eyes sparkled more brightly. The proposition delighted her.
"You'll have to break a bottle of Moselle against the machine, Margaret. You would like to do it, wouldn't you?"
Margaret nodded, and gave Philip a bright look. "O, don't make a stranger of me!" cried the First Old Woman.